At the Court of the Amîr: A Narrative

The bazaar in which I met the Naib is a modern one built by the present Amîr, the street is wider and the shops are better built than those of the other bazaars.

There are three chief bazaars or streets of shops in Kabul. Two lead from the direction of the workshop gorge eastward through the town. One running near the foot of the mountains to the Bala Hissar, and the other near the middle of the town. These two are for a considerable distance broader, better paved, and more carefully roofed than the others. In the best part the houses are two stories high. They are flat topped, and beams supporting a roof to the bazaar extend across from house to house. In other parts, where the houses are but one story, the bazaar is not roofed in. The other chief bazaar extends from a strong wooden bridge over the Kabul river, southward through the middle of the town. This too is roofed over in a part of its course, but it is neither so broad nor so carefully built as the others. There are a few smaller bazaars and many narrow streets or passages striking off in different directions from the others. They are badly paved, undrained, and exceedingly dirty. The shops are small and open, like stalls, with no front window. The floor of each is raised three or four feet above the street, and the shopkeeper sits cross-legged among his goods. At night he closes his shop with shutters, fastening the last shutter with a chain and a curious cylindrical padlock. Some parts of the bazaars are reserved for the sale or manufacture of particular articles. There is, for instance, the shoe bazaar. This is in the street leading from the wooden bridge south. The Afghan shoes are of heavy make, are sewn with strips of leather and have the pointed toe turned upwards. Some are elaborately embroidered with gold. The women’s shoes or slippers are generally green in colour, and are made with a high heel. They are almost sandals, having an upper only at the toe. They are awkward things to walk in, I have noticed, for they drop at the heel at every step. The native shoes are those most on show, but one can buy English boots of all kinds, from the elaborate patent leather of Northampton to the three-and-sixpenny army boot. There are also long Russian boots made of beautifully soft leather: these are the fashion among the highest class; and a cheaper Turkoman boot of a similar shape with a high heel that cavalry soldiers who can afford the luxury invest in. A shopkeeper is, however, none too ready to show you his best goods. He does not exhibit them in the shop, for the Government officials have a way of buying anything that takes their fancy at their own price.

I noticed in the boot bazaar that in the three-foot space under the floor of the shop the poorer men, the cobblers, did their business. There was just room to sit, and there the cobbler sat stitching, with his nose on a level with the knees of the passers by. A customer with a shoe to mend squats down beside him and gives his orders. Cobblers who can’t afford to rent even such a “shop” as this, sit by the roadside in the shade of a wall or a tree and carry on their business.

There is a copper bazaar. Though copper is found in Afghanistan, most of that used comes from India. This bazaar is in the street running east through the middle of the city. Here, there is shop after shop of men hammering out copper into the different shaped utensils: the long necked vase for the chillim, or hubble-bubble pipe: bowls and pots for cooking kettles: water vases with long neck and handle and tapering curved spout. The shapes are all those made by their fathers and forefathers; there is no new design invented. The pots used for cooking are tinned over inside and out. Supposing the tin has worn off your cooking pots, you send to the bazaar for one of these men. It is interesting to watch how he sets to work.

He brings a pair of hand-bellows with him and a stick of tin. Settling himself on the ground in the garden he digs a shallow hole six or seven inches across. This is to be his furnace. From it he leads a little trench about six inches long, which he covers over with clay, placing his finger in the trench as he moulds each piece of clay over it. Thus he has a pipe leading to his furnace. The nozzle of his bellows is fitted into the distal end of the pipe. He begs a little lighted charcoal from the cook with which to start his “furnace,” piles it over with black charcoal, blows his bellows, and soon has what fire he wants. A small boy with him having cleaned the pots with mud and sand, he places the first one, supported on three stones, over his furnace. When it is at the proper heat he rubs it round with a rag smeared with wood ashes, touches it with the stick of tin, then rubs it round again with his wood ashes, and the pot is tinned. If you are watching him he may make it extra superfine with another touch of tin and another rub with the wood ashes, and so he goes on till he has finished them all.

There is the cotton and silk bazaar in the street leading from the gorge to the Bala Hissar. The shops here are mostly kept by Hindus. Every Hindu in Kabul, and there is quite a colony of them, has to pay a poll tax, and is not allowed to wear a blue turban. It must be either yellow or red—generally they wear red.

Besides the rolls of silk from India and Bokhara, and the plain and printed cotton goods which come from India, there are many English undergarments to be seen: for English clothing of every kind is very fashionable among the upper classes in Kabul. There are cotton and merino vests, socks, and handkerchiefs hanging on strings across the little shops. The Hindu shopman in Kabul strikes one as oppressively civil, he “salaams” so low with the hand on the forehead. The Afghan trader does not. You can buy or not as you please. If he has a piece with a yard or two more than you want, often he will not cut it for you. You can take the lot or leave it, he is not particular. But Afghan and Hindu alike ask you a much higher price than they will afterwards take.

If you want to buy anything, you send for a shopkeeper to your house and ask his price. He tells you. You smile derisively, and offer him just a third. He is pained, he is indignant, the thing is absurd, he gave a great deal more than that himself. You say, “Good morning.” Then he says—Well, he will do what he can, for you are a friend to the poor, but it will be a dead loss to him; and he knocks a little off his price. You say, “No,” but add a little on to yours, and so it goes on for a variable time, derision and sarcasm on your side—a pained indignation on his. Finally, he takes less than half of what he asked originally, and is well paid then; but when he goes away you feel rather as if you had swindled the poor man.

Though shopkeepers in Kabul selling similar goods tend to congregate in the same bazaar, they do not do so to the same degree as in some of the towns of India. You find boot shops in other streets than the chief boot bazaar; and so with other goods for sale.

In the tea-drinking shops you see a large samovar, about three feet high, in one corner, where water is kept boiling hot by the glowing charcoal in the centre pipe. Men drop in and seat themselves, cross-legged, for a chat and a cup of tea. The shops will hold some three or four. The Afghans like their tea very hot, weak, very sweet, and flavoured with cardamoms, which are put unpowdered into the teapot. They pay a pice, that is a little less than a farthing, for a cup of tea. If a man has some tea with him, and he often has, he can always send to one of these shops for a teapot and hot water. He pays a pice for it. There is also a preparation they call “kaimagh-chai,” but this is comparatively expensive, and is drunk only at festivals or times of rejoicing. It is a mixture of tea, sugar, cream, soda, and cardamoms. It is thick, curdy, pink, and very sweet—not at all bad to taste, but very “rich.” The teapots, cups, and saucers in use are generally from Russia. Some of the richer men have them from China or Japan.

Besides the tea-drinking shops there are the eating-houses. These have no marble-topped tables or velvet-covered chairs. The shop is the same as any other shop, except that it looks rather dirtier, probably from the amount of fat or oil used in the cooking. The customer carries his lunch away with him, or stands outside to eat it. The space inside the shop is taken up by the cook and the cooking pots. They sell kabobs—little cubes of meat skewered on a long stick and grilled over charcoal. A stick of kabobs, with some bread, is uncommonly good if you are hungry; you tear the meat off the stick with your fingers. They have also meat, finely minced and mixed with fat, which they squeeze in their hand round a thin stick and cook over charcoal. It looks rather like sausage, I don’t know what it is called. They use any kind of meat for this—mutton—or, failing that, the flesh of the camel or horse that age or infirmity has rendered unfit for further service. There are many kinds of pilau too. Rice, boiled skilfully till every grain is soft without being soppy, is piled over the meat, stewed to such tenderness that you can easily tear a piece off with the fingers. There are chicken pilau, mutton pilau, sweet pilau with raisins in it, and so on. Kourma is another dish—meat stewed in small pieces and eaten with stewed fruit.

For his pudding the Afghan goes to another shop, the confectioner’s. Here there are sweets of many kinds: sugared almonds, “cocoa-nut ice,” sweets made in the shape of rings, sticks, animals, or men; gingerbread, soft puddings made of Indian corn, much sweetened. In the summer different kinds of iced sherbet, lemon, orange, or rose are sold in the street.

In the bread shop, the baker squatting on the floor kneads out the dough into large flat cakes and claps it in his oven. The oven is a large clay jar about three feet across and three feet deep, with the neck a foot in diameter. This is buried beneath the shop, the mouth being level with the floor, and is packed round with earth. It is heated by making a fire inside. When the heat is sufficient, and the fire has burnt out, the baker puts his hand in the mouth and flaps the flat doughy cake against the wall of the oven, where it sticks. When baked, it generally brings away some grains of charcoal or grit with it. You pay two pice (a little less than a halfpenny) for a cake of bread a foot and a-half long, a foot wide, and an inch thick.

Flour is ground in a water mill. A hut is built by the side of some stream which has a sufficient fall. The water pours down a slanting trough over the water wheel, and turns two circular flat stones which are arranged horizontally in the hut. The miller, squatting down, throws the grain into an aperture in the upper wheel and scoops up the flour as it is ground away from between the stones on to the floor. The bread made from the flour varies very much in grittiness, some is hardly at all gritty. The Afghans are very particular about eating their bread hot, they don’t care to eat it cold unless they are on a journey. One of their proverbs is, “Hot bread and cold water are the bounteous gifts of God,” “Nan i gurrum wa ab i khunuk Niamati Illahist.”

Butchers’ shops are not very common; meat is an expensive luxury. Mutton is the usual meat eaten. By very poor people other meats are sometimes eaten, especially in the form of mince. In the latter case it is impossible to say what the meat is, so the impecunious Afghan assumes it to be mutton. If there is any meat in the mince that is unclean—on the shopkeeper’s head be it for selling anything “nujis” to a True Believer.

There is very little meat to be seen hanging in the shops, for the climate being a hot one and flies numerous, the meat will not keep more than a few hours. What the joints are it is impossible to say, for they cut the sheep up quite differently from an English butcher. At one time I used to try and puzzle out when the joint came to the table what it was: I gave up the attempt afterwards as futile. The mutton is excellent in quality and very cheap. I wished to give a dinner one day to a dozen Afghans—the Amîr’s palanquin bearers. I bought a sheep for 4s. 6d., some rice, butter, bread, and firewood, and the whole cost less than 6s.

Kabul is famous all over Central Asia for the manufacture of the postîn or sheepskin pelisse. While riding along the bazaar running from the wooden bridge south, I used to wonder at one place what the faint disagreeable smell was due to. I found on enquiry that there was a manufactory of postîns there. I have not seen the whole process of tanning. The skin of the sheep or lamb with the wool on it is cleaned and scraped, then soaked in the river and pegged out in the sun to dry; afterwards it is tanned yellow with pomegranate rind. The leather is beautifully soft, and it is usually embroidered artistically with yellow silk. The wool is, of course, worn inside. The better ones are trimmed at the collar and cuffs with astrakhan. There are several different kinds of sheepskin postîns. The long one reaching from shoulder to ankle, with ample folds that you wrap yourself up in on a winter night: there is nothing more cosy and warm to sleep in. The sleeves are very long and are more for ornament than use. These are but little embroidered, they cost from fifteen to thirty rupees. There is a short one with sleeves, which is elaborately embroidered. This is worn in the winter by the soldiers—cavalrymen, for instance, if they can afford the necessary ten or fifteen rupees. Similar but cheaper ones with less beautiful wool and no embroidery, can be bought for four or five rupees. There is the waistcoat postîn of lamb’s wool, which is made without sleeves, this costs two rupees six annas Kabuli, or half-a-crown English. These waistcoat postîns and the long sleeping postîns are used by all classes, rich and poor. The others are used only by the poorer classes, the peasants and the soldiers. A gentleman or a man of position would no more think of putting one on, were it ever so beautiful and elaborate in its embroidery, than would a resident of the west of London think of appearing in the “pearlies” and velvet embroidered coat of the coster. The rich men wear, in the winter, coats of cashmere, velvet or cloth, lined with beautiful furs from Bokhara and other parts of Asiatic Russia.

The most valuable fur that is imported I have not seen, only the Amîr wears it, and he rarely; from the description they gave me I conclude it is sable. The next most valuable is the “Khuz,” a species of Marten. There are two kinds, the Khuz i Zulmati, which is dark, and the Khuz i Mahtabi, which is much lighter and of an inferior quality. These can be bought sewn together in the sheet, either with or without the tails of the animals attached. There were twenty-four skins in the sheet I bought. The shopman asked £10 for it, but he let me have it the next day for £6.

Then there is the “Altai,” a beautiful fur taken from the inner side of the leg of the red fox. A sheet consists of many pieces, each with a deep black centre surrounded by a dark red margin. I bought one in Turkestan for £6, which I was told was cheap. Squirrel fur made into the sheet, with or without tails, either grey or grey and white, is very popular. It is called “Sinjab,” and is less expensive than the others. There are several other cheaper furs—a white one they call cat skin—though of what cat I do not know, the fur of it soon rubs off; and a short brown fur, the name of which I never heard. Astrakhan, of which the Amîr has the monopoly, is exported largely to Russia and in small quantities to India. It is used chiefly to cover the round or straight-sided Russian hats that Afghan Colonels and Captains wear. It is difficult to get hold of any in the Kabul bazaars.

In the ironmongers’ shops are nails, hammers, locks, knives, and horse-shoes. The last are made broad, flat, and rather thin, in the Russian style. I was told that this pattern is considered to protect the frog of the horse’s foot from the numerous stones and pebbles he has to go over on a journey. Shoes in the English pattern are more expensive. I heard that the Amîr had imposed a small tax on the sale of them.

In the “arms” shops are swords, guns, and pistols of various kinds. There is the curved “shamshir,” or scimitar, with a cross hilt. Most of these come, Mr. Pyne told me, from Birmingham, some, I suppose, from Germany. They can be tied in a knot if necessary. The Armenian interpreter one day brought me a sword to examine; he was thinking of buying it for eight rupees. It looked like an English sword, and was brightly burnished. I put the point on the ground and bent the sword to try its spring. It seemed easy to bend. I raised it up and it remained in the position to which I had bent it.

“Wah!” said the Armenian, “and he is English sword!”

“Oh, no,” I said, “German.”

Then I had to explain where Germany was. But I don’t know, it may have been English; I hope not. I advised him not to buy it for eight rupees. He said, “I not have him at one pice.”

There is the straight-pointed Afghan sword, the blade of which broadens to three inches at the handle. The back from point to handle is straight and thick. There is no handguard. The best of these are made in Khost, a frontier district south of the Kurram valley. The blades are often beautifully damascened, and the handles of ivory or horn are carved and inlaid with gold or silver or studded with jewels. They are very sharp, the steel is of good quality, and they are rather expensive. For one of good quality without a scabbard, and which was not elaborately ornamented, I gave sixty rupees. I had a scabbard made in Kabul. The scabbard is made of two long pieces of wood thinned and hollowed out to receive the sword; these are fastened together and covered with leather. Formerly they were covered with snake skin. Mine was covered with patent leather and mounted with silver. I weighed out rupees to the silversmith, and when the mounts were finished he weighed them out to me before they were attached to the scabbard. The scabbard is made longer than is usual in England, for it takes the handle all but about an inch, as well as the blade of the sword. In these shops are also rifles for sale—the native jezail with a curved stock ornamented with ivory, and with a very long barrel fastened on with many bands. The Afghan hillmen and the Hazaras make these, and they are good shots with them. They make their own powder also. There are old-fashioned English rifles, flint locks and hammer locks: some very heavy, with a two-pronged support hinged on to the barrel, presumably to rest on the ground and steady the rifle when taking aim; native pistols and old English pistols of various kinds; old shirts of chain mail and small shields with bosses on. These are not used now except for ornament. Lance or spear heads, old Indian and English helmets, firemen’s helmets; powder flasks made of metal or dried skin; and heavy tough very strong wooden bows, with a straight handpiece in the middle of the bow: these were used in the time of Dost Mahomed. I never saw any arrows, and the bows were sold merely as curiosities. Boys and lads, now-a-days, use a bow with two strings which are kept apart by a two-inch prop. They use it to kill birds, shooting small stones from a strip of leather attached to the two strings.

The silver and goldsmiths make native ornaments similar to those one sees in India: broad, thin perforated bracelets; studs for the nostril, that the hillwomen wear—this custom, however, is not so common as among the Hindus; necklaces of coins and discs, amulet boxes, belt buckles, and so on. Nothing original or peculiar to Afghanistan seems to be made.

In the cap shops there are rows of small conical caps, hanging on pegs and on bars across the top of the shop. The Afghan turban is wound round the cap which is jammed on the back of the head. If put more forwards the weight of the turban causes a painful pressure on the forehead.

There are several different kinds of caps. The Kabul cap is thickly quilted with cotton-wool. Inside, at the top, a little roll of paper enclosed in silk is sewn. This is supposed to have a sentence from the Koran written on it to protect the wearer from harm. I opened a roll one day to see what was written, but found the paper blank. The best caps are embroidered all over with gold thread from Benares. Some are but little embroidered, have simply a star at the top, and others not at all. Some are made of velvet, and some of cloth. Those from Turkestan are not quilted. They are not so heavy as the Kabul caps, are of very bright colours, and are worn indoors or at night. The caps are of all prices, from three or four pice to fifteen rupees. The lungis, or turbans, are also of many different kinds: the commonest being cotton dyed blue with indigo—these are of native make: or of white cotton or muslin from India. A better kind are of blue or grey cotton, embroidered at the ends with gold thread, in wider or narrower bars, according to the price. These come from Peshawur, and they look very handsome on a tall dark-skinned Afghan. Others are from Cashmere, most beautifully embroidered, and are fawn-coloured, turquoise-blue, black, green, or white. The ordinary length of a lungi is nine yards; the cashmere, being thicker, are not so long. The only white cashmere lungi I ever saw was the Amîr’s. He gave it me one day; but that is a story I will relate further on.

In the cap shops are also Kabul silk handkerchiefs for sale. They are of beautiful colours—purple, crimson, and green. I do not know what dyes are used, but they are not fast, they wash out; and the silk is of poor quality, not to be compared with English or French silk. In these shops, too, are gold brocades of various kinds, mostly from Delhi or Agra. Some, however, are made in Kabul, the design being copied from English or European embroidery that has been imported. Many of the workers imitate European embroidery with wonderful exactness, though they do not seem to be able to originate any new designs. If one bolder than the rest attempts to do so, the design is greatly wanting in beauty of outline. The brocades are used for tea-cloths, and by the Amîr and richer men for table-covers. The skill of these men is also called into use to decorate the dresses of ladies, and the tunics of pages and gentlemen.

In the grocer’s shop the most prominent things to be seen are the big loaves of white sugar from India and Austria. The native sugar is made in small conical loaves—about a pound each. It is very sweet, but not so white as European sugar. The loaves of native sugar are always wrapped round with coloured paper—pink, red, or blue—so that the shop looks quite smart. The tea for sale is chiefly green tea from Bombay. It is brought by koffla—camel and donkey caravan, from Peshawur through the Khyber Pass, by the travelling merchants or carriers. Many of the rich men of Kabul own trains of camels, which they hire out for carrying purposes. There is black tea also, but in small quantities and expensive. It is said to be brought from China through Asiatic Russia and Turkestan. The Afghans always call black tea “chai-i-famîl.”

The candles are of two kinds, tallow and composite. The tallow are of native manufacture—dips—with cotton wick. They are not used very much, as they gutter and melt away very quickly. There is a much better tallow candle made in Afghan Turkestan, thicker than the Kabul candle, which burns exceedingly well. The composite candles are much more popular, and are not very expensive. They come from Bombay or Peshawur, and are used largely by the Amîr and the richer men. The poorer people use an oil lamp, very much the shape of the old Roman lamp. It is of clay or terra-cotta, saucer-shaped, with or without a handle, and with a spout. The cotton wick floats in the oil, and extends a quarter of an inch beyond the spout, where it is lighted. The oil they use is, I believe, almond oil: it is called “Têl-i-kûnjit.” It has a smoky flame, and gives a poor light. Some lamps on the same principle are larger, elaborately made of brass, and hang by chains from the ceiling; they have four or five wicks. Others, also with three or four wicks, are made of tinned iron; they stand on the ground supported on an upright about a foot high. Paraffin oil from Bombay can also be bought, and some of the richer men occasionally use cheap paraffin lamps “made in Germany.”

Soap is both native and imported. The native is in saucer-shaped lumps. It is not used for washing the hands and face—an Afghan rarely uses soap for this purpose; but for washing clothes or harness. It is rather alkaline and caustic. A soap “plant,” with its tanks, has been erected in the workshops, and doubtless when the working of it is better understood the soap will be of usable quality. At present it does not sell. Other soap in the form of tablets is imported from India, Russia, and Austria. By what route it comes from Austria I do not know, unless, like so many cheap German goods, it comes through India. Russian soap is the cheapest and worst, it crumbles up in your hands the second time you use it. Next is the Austrian, which is not at all bad; the best and most expensive is the English. The native salt—powdered rock salt, pinkish in colour—is not very good. You have to use so much before you can taste it. I don’t think any salt is imported. Spices of most kinds can be bought—pepper, nutmeg, cloves, and so on; but these are bought at drug shops.

Fruit shops are in great numbers, for fruit and vegetables form important items in the diet of the poorer people: in the summer fresh fruit and vegetables, and in the winter dried fruits, particularly the mulberry, are largely used. The fruit shops are, as a rule, arranged very tastefully. Grapes of different kinds are in great quantities and exceedingly cheap—a donkey load for a rupee. Melons and water melons, apples, quinces, pomegranates, pears, and various kinds of plums, nectarines, peaches, and apricots. Dried fruits, almonds, roasted peas, pistachio nuts, dried mulberries, apricots, and raisins, are sold by the grocers. Fresh fruit, as soon as it is ripe, and even before, is eaten in large quantities, far more than is good for the health of the people.

The Englishmen in Kabul had to be exceedingly careful in eating fruit. Unless taken in very small quantities it produced, or predisposed to, troublesome bowel affections. The natives, though, as a rule, not so susceptible as the English, were affected in the same way, sometimes dangerously, occasionally fatally.

In a tailor’s shop you see one man sitting on the ground hard at work with a sewing-machine, another cutting out or stitching. There are no ready made clothes in a tailor’s shop, these are to be bought elsewhere. A rich man has, as a rule, a tailor attached to his establishment. Those less rich having procured their material send for a tailor from the bazaar. He cuts out the material in front of the employer and takes away the garment to his shop to make up. This is a check upon the tailor, so that there can be no purloining of material. Ready-made clothes, new or secondhand, are for sale in many shops. English coats of all kinds sell readily, especially old military uniforms. One day a man walked into the hospital evidently thinking himself rather smart. For the moment I was startled: I thought he was an Englishman. He was dressed in the complete costume of a railway guard.

The costume of the hillmen and peasants is the same as that worn by the Khyberi Pathans, which I have described. An Afghan in typical native town costume—say a mirza, or clerk—is dressed somewhat more carefully than the Pathan. He wears the loose oriental trousers, or pyjamas, gathered in at the waist and hanging in multitudinous folds draping from the hip to the inner side of the knee and ankle, the band at the ankle fitting somewhat closely. The native shoes with turned up pointed toes are worn without socks, that is, unless the wearer is wealthy. The embroidered camise, or shirt, falls over the pyjamas nearly to the knee. A waistcoat with sleeves is worn reaching a little below the waist and slit at the hip. Finally, a loose robe or coat worn unfastened and with long sleeves, reaches midway between the knee and ankle. The waistcoat is of velvet or cloth, quilted and generally embroidered with gold. The coat is of thinner material, and, as a rule, of native cloth. The townsmen, however, generally, though not always, modify the native costume with European innovations. As a rule the higher they rise in the social scale the more Europeanized they become—in costume if in little else. The Afghans, though invariably spoken of as religious fanatics, are far less “conservative” than the Mahomedans of India. You never see one of the latter with an English hat on: a very great many refuse to adopt even European boots. In Afghanistan the readiness to become Europeanized, at any rate in appearance, probably depends upon the personal influence of the Amîr. After European weapons and knives—these are readily adopted by all who can afford them—the first thing taken is the belt with a buckle, instead of the cummerbund or waistshawl. It is, however, open to question whether this innovation is an improvement, for in a climate with such great variations of temperature as that of Afghanistan the cummerbund is an excellent protection to the abdominal organs. Socks are readily adopted even by the conservative. Then come European coats, which are worn by a great many of the townsmen. After the coats, European boots. Trousers are worn, as a rule, only by the upper classes, including the court pages and by some of the soldiers. They are made somewhat loosely and are worn over the pyjamas. When a gentleman or Khan arrives at home after the business of the day is finished, he throws off his European garb and appears in native costume. First, the belt and tunic are removed, and he dons the loose robe. Then his boots and trousers, and he can curl his legs up under him once more in the comfortable Oriental way, as he sits on his carpet or cushions on the floor. To sit on a chair for any length of time tires an Oriental very much more than a European can realize.

Finally, English felt hats, or solar helmets, are worn by the more liberal minded, or those who are more ready to imitate the Amîr. Russian astrakhan hats, semiglobular shape, and those wider at the top, have been worn for many years by gentlemen and officers in the army. This was not such a striking innovation, for the somewhat similar Turkoman hat of astrakhan has been familiar to the Afghan for ages.

In the drug shops are native drugs for sale. Some few English drugs can be bought: quinine, of which the Afghans are beginning to realize the value; and chloral hydrate, of which some are beginning to learn the fascination. The native drugs are such as manna, camphor, castor oil, and purgative seeds of various kinds.

CHAPTER VII.
Ethics.

When we had been in Kabul about a fortnight, His Highness the Amîr nearly lost the services of Mr. Pyne. It occurred in this way. We were riding along the lanes around Kabul, accompanied by a guard of troopers, and Mr. Pyne was lamenting that he had drank water for lunch. “There it was,” he said, “still deadly chill.” He certainly had water enough and to spare very shortly after. He had galloped on a little ahead towards the river, and when we turned the corner expecting to catch sight of him, he was nowhere to be seen. The Kabul river, swollen by rains and melting snow, was roaring and foaming by. I galloped along the bank expecting to see him. Hearing a shout, I looked back and saw one of the sowars, who was some yards behind me, jump off his horse and run to the bank, which was here some three or four feet above the river. I sprang off my horse and ran up just in time to see Pyne dragged out, dripping, by the lash of the soldier’s whip.

He was galloping, he said, along the path on the river bank when he came to a place where the bank was lower and the river partly overflowed it. Never thinking but what there was firm bottom he did not stop, and down his horse sunk till Pyne was up to his armpits in water, icy cold. The next minute the current swept him off, and he found himself under water near his horse’s heels, with the animal striking out violently in its endeavour to swim out. He came to the surface and tried to swim to the bank, but his arm caught in the rein and he and his horse were swept together to the middle of the stream. He got clear of the rein by sinking, and struck for the bank again, but found the current turned his head up stream. Meanwhile, his riding boots became filled with water, and his turban and clothes soaked. The current swept him along, but by violent exertion he reached the bank, here four or five feet high, caught at a root and shouted. The root was torn out, and again he was swept into midstream: things now seemed to be getting serious. He saw two men wrestling on the bank, and a priest on a tower calling people to prayer, but no one would look round at him. With the heavy turban weighing him down, and wet clothes impeding his action, he could with difficulty keep his head above water. His breath was going, and his muscles aching when he once more got under the bank. He saw me go galloping by, and shouted. The sowar who was near heard the shout, saw him, jumped off his horse, and threw him the lash of his whip.

Just under the bank his feet touched the bottom, and he stood up to his neck in water, holding on to the whip and panting to get enough breath to scramble up the bank. He was hauled out, dripping, and then we looked round for the horse. The poor brute was struggling and snorting, and being rapidly carried along midstream. Pyne ran along the bank and called to him. The animal turned his head, pricked up his ears, and struck vigorously for the shore. He reached the bank, and with two or three violent plunges scrambled up to dry land.

Pyne did not tell me all this on the river bank, for we mounted at once and galloped off to the workshops, so that he could get into dry clothes; then I heard the whole story.

No evil resulted, but the soldiers of the guard were informed that if Mr. Pyne had been drowned, their lives would have been forfeited—a strong inducement to a “guard” to be watchful and attentive.

I mentioned a “priest on a tower calling people to prayer.” There are several towers round about Kabul, mostly to the north-west of the city. They are not of great height, and I doubt if they were built originally for religious minarets, for they are not attached to any mosque or musjid. Probably they were originally watch-towers put up by the peasants to guard their crops and herds from local marauders. On the mountains near Kabul one sees stupendous minars which were built, it is said, by Alexander to mark the road through Afghanistan to India. One of these may be seen from Kabul on the distant peak of a mountain to the east of the Kabul valley; another can be seen west of Kabul, from the elevation of the Paghman hills.

Mosques, or, as they are called, musjids, are numerous in Kabul. Some are comparatively large, with a courtyard and a domed roof with a minaret on each side. These have either a stream of water near, or a tank or well, for the use of those who come to pray: for Mahomedans invariably wash hands, feet, and face before they pray, and cleanse also the nostrils and mouth. There is a rush matting on the floor, and the worshippers leave their shoes outside, as they do when entering any house. Inside, the musjid is very empty and bare.

In the west wall is the niche, or mihrab, marking the direction of Mecca: or the Kibla, so called because of the Kibla or stone of Mahomed in Mecca, and towards this the worshippers turn their faces when they pray. In the larger musjids there is also a pulpit or platform with three steps, called a Mimbar, from which the Imām or preacher recites his Sabbath oration, Friday being the Sabbath. The Amîr’s new rupee is stamped on one side with a decorative representation of a musjid with a three-stepped pulpit inside. At early dawn, and at four other times during the day, the priest mounts the minaret, and, standing upright, with his thumbs in his ears and his hands spread out, he utters in a penetrating falsetto voice the call of the faithful to prayer, “Allah akbar! Allah akbar, Mahomed Ressul Allah!” and so on. “God is great, God is great, Mahomed is the Prophet of God. Come to Prayers, Prayers are better than sleep. Come to salvation, God is great. There is no god but God.” Then a few people begin to gather in, ten or twelve to a musjid.

They stand in a row, their faces towards Mecca, and the priest, having descended, stands in front of them with his face in the same direction. The priest recites the prayers, standing, or stooping with his head bent, kneeling or prostrating himself with his forehead touching the ground, according to the law of the ceremony. The people imitate the priest in his motions. They are supposed to repeat the prayers to themselves, but the prayers are in Arabic, which very few Afghans understand: so that if they have learnt them by heart they repeat them simply as a parrot does.

The smaller musjids have no courtyard, they are flat-roofed and open on one side, the roof being supported on that side by carved wooden pillars, and the musjid is raised three steps above the street. These have the mihrab, or altar, but no pulpit, and the minaret is replaced by a block of stone about a foot square outside the musjid, on which the priest stands to utter the call to prayer. These, too, have a stream, a well or tank, or some other water supply for ablution.

So far as I could judge the majority of people do not go to a musjid to pray except when there is some national calamity, such as a visitation of cholera. On these occasions they go in procession with bands of music and flags. I once saw a procession in the distance, but though I felt some curiosity to see it nearer, I did not thrust myself unduly forward. There are drawbacks to doing so when Mahomedans are in a state of religious enthusiasm, for there is the possibility that one of them, overcome by excess of zeal, might obtain Paradise for himself by putting a knife into a Feringhi. It was not my ambition to be, in this way, a stepping-stone to Paradise.

Ordinarily such Afghans as profess religion go through the ceremony of prayer just where they happen to be when the time of prayer arrives. There are five periods appointed in the day. The first, just before sunrise; the second, just after midday; the third, an hour before, and the fourth, just after sunset; and the fifth, when they can no longer distinguish a white from a black thread. If they happen to be at Durbar they withdraw a little from the presence of the Amîr—for His Highness sits towards the west of the audience chamber—spread their cloaks or coats in lieu of “praying carpets,” and turning towards the west, or Mecca, go through their prayers. The Amîr’s two eldest sons pray regularly at the appointed times, and if they happen to be in Durbar at the time some of the chief officers join them.

His Highness the Amîr does not pray, at least so far as I know. I have never seen him do so openly, though it may be he prays in his heart. I have noticed that some of the greatest scoundrels at the Court are those who openly pray, or go through the form of prayer most regularly.

God, as conceived by the Afghans, seems to be an All-powerful Being, towards whom it is necessary to behave with the greatest politeness; for if one detail of etiquette be omitted God will be offended—and then what harm He can bring upon the offender! It is far less dangerous to offend against a fellow-man by annexing his property or taking his life than to insult God by omitting to bow down to Him on one of the five appointed times.

There are many, however, who do not trouble to be religious. I do not know how they look at things: whether they think too much is required of them, or that they will probably be able to gain Paradise in the end by killing some unbelievers, or whether they simply don’t care. When attending medically any man of education, I had always to be careful in enquiring whether he were “religious” or not; for if I gave a tincture (containing spirit) to any “religious” man, I got into trouble—he evidently considered that I wished to injure his prestige with God. With the uneducated, or poorer people, I had no trouble of that kind. They swallowed anything I liked to give them unhesitatingly. I never found the “religious” Afghan a whit less ready to “do his neighbour in the eye” than a non-religious one.

The musjid is also the schoolhouse, and is presided over by the priest. A learned priest will get a good many pupils, but an unlearned one none. I have often seen boys from eight to thirteen years of age seated in a row in the musjid with the moolah, or priest, opposite them. Their open books are propped on an X shaped support, and the boys sway backwards and forwards as they drone out in a monotonous voice whatever they are committing to memory. The education of the majority seems to be of the very slenderest. They learn to read parts of certain books and to write a little. With some, education is carried further, particularly among those who are intended for priests and mîrzas. Some of the latter study Persian sufficiently to write a well worded and flowery letter: they learn, too, a certain amount of mathematics—arithmetic and Euclid. The moolahs learn some Arabic because the Koran is written in that language: otherwise, foreign languages are not taught. The Court pages seem to be taught rather more than other boys; some of them learn the different languages of the country—Pushtu and Turki—as well as Persian. The Amîr’s eldest son, Prince Habibullah, was learning English when I was in Kabul, though I never heard of anyone else learning the language. I have heard the Amîr speak Persian, Pushtu, and Turki. He told me he could speak Arabic also. Of Russian he said he knew two words only, I have forgotten what they were; and of English he knew two words: “tree,” he said, meant “dirakht,” and “gown” meant a lady’s dress.

The income of the priests is derived from their fees for performing the ceremonies of marriage and of burial, and from charitable donations.

A priest who is a Sêyid, or a direct descendant of the Prophet, is hereditarily a beggar. He can demand from anyone he pleases a sufficient sum of money for his wants. The Sêyids in Afghanistan do not seem to have the exclusive right of wearing green turbans: in fact, I never saw one with a green turban on, though I have often seen page boys and others not Sêyids wearing them. One of my servants, the mîrza, or secretary, was a Sêyid. He was a good sort of man in his way, and I quite liked him. However, he used to smoke Churrus, or Indian hemp, and it affected his intellect. At times he behaved like one insane. He never attempted any violence towards me; in fact, though I was warned against him, I think he was too attached to me to do me an injury: but, perhaps, I am wrong in this; however, he never did do any harm. If he were upset he would cover his face with chalk and walk about shaking his head in a dejected way, muttering, “Tobah, tobah,” Alas! alas! One day he removed all his clothing, and went out into the street with his beggar’s wallet only. I sent one of the military police to fetch him back, and asked him if he were not ashamed to behave in that manner. He said he was tired of work. I said, “You are earning an honest living and are able to send money to your wife and children in Jelalabad.” He said, Yes, but he had to write when he didn’t want to write. It was better that he should go out with nothing and beg for his few wants. As for his wife and children, God would take care of them. There seemed a certain amount of “method” in this. Occasionally, however, he was very violent, though not with me, and I could hear him raving like a madman.